


Oh, to be alone

by allonsy_jo



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Episode: s01e06 Rare Species, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is a Mess, Jaskier feels are the focus but there are Yen feels too, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:41:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24719206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_jo/pseuds/allonsy_jo
Summary: “We could head to the coast. Get away for a while…”They sit there, the sun a warm glow, Jaskier a solid presence beside him, and Geralt finds himself surprised. Not that Jaskier would make the suggestion, not exactly, but that, in this moment, Geralt almost wants to give in. Geralt tries not to want. Wanting never leads anywhere good.Men like Geralt don’t get to just go to the coast.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 6
Kudos: 29





	Oh, to be alone

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in quite a while and my first for The Witcher. I know there have been a million mountain fics, but this little study of Geralt's POV just wouldn't leave me. I like to think there's more to his outburst than the rejection that Jaskier takes away from it. Because Geralt does care; he's just got some shit ways of showing it.
> 
> The title comes from Hozier's "To Be Alone."
> 
> Comments are appreciated ♥

_“We could head to the coast. Get away for a while…”_

They sit there, the sun a warm glow, Jaskier a solid presence beside him, and Geralt finds himself surprised. Not that Jaskier would make the suggestion, not exactly, but that, in this moment, Geralt almost wants to give in. Geralt tries not to want. Wanting never leads anywhere good. He’s tied Yennefer to himself, the child, and Jaskier too, and that without even trying. Jaskier follows, time after time, and it might be … nice … to follow him for once. To the coast. To sit like this, but with a sea salt breeze playing around them. Geralt imagines it: the bard with his lute on his lap and toes in the sand. Geralt with an ear out for trouble. But what Jaskier wants tends to end in disaster too. Between the two of them, the witcher has a feeling it would all go south. Maybe not at first. But men like Geralt don’t get to just go to the coast. 

A thought returns, one that’s never far gone – they should part. Jaskier can go to the coast, find out what pleases him, and leave Geralt alone. The bard keeps coming back, and one of these times …

It settles for once, the thought. It starts to take root.

If they part now, Jaskier leaves as the man he is in this moment. Young and in love with the world, alive and not forever grimy with the dirt of Geralt’s life. It will start to stain him soon. Something’s in the air; Geralt can feel it. Better to push Jaskier away, to break the kid’s heart - and he is a kid still, the witcher thinks. Geralt had called him a snotty-nosed brat just the other day. He remembers, with the most minute twitch of his lips, how Jaskier had sputtered and crowed and drove home Geralt’s point. What had they been quarreling over? What don’t they quarrel over? He thinks about Yennefer’s taunt – he doesn’t see any crow’s feet; a bit of a paunch, maybe – and the witcher realizes that Jaskier must surely be past 40 years now. Geralt’s not sure how he manages to stay so boyish, round in cheek and easy in his laughter, in his stalwart belief in their friendship.

As if Geralt won’t get him killed. As if Geralt’s ever been any kind of friend.

The thought has taken root, and it grows on the mountain with each day. The witcher watches everything he touches crumble. Of course Yennefer would never stay. Why does Jaskier?

And so on that cursed mountain, after Yennefer makes her choice, Geralt does too:

_“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”_

Geralt chooses the lesser evil, and he watches all of that youth and belief die in Jaskier’s eyes. When he can’t look anymore, he hears: all of the music of the bard’s voice goes weak and thin, the most vibrant, effusive man Geralt has ever known curling in on himself like a whipped dog. This is a better death, the witcher tells himself, than the one he’s sure Jaskier would someday find at his side.

The bard will find other stories to tell. He doesn’t need to keep twining his own with the witcher’s, tangled in each other as they are. There is no going away to the coast. There is no getting away from it all. It follows the witcher; he’s always wading through the shit. He’s never needed Jaskier to shovel more in. He doesn’t need to drag his friend down with him. He lets himself savor the word for just a moment, in his mind. He’d meant to say it someday.

_"See you around, Geralt."_

But he won’t.

Geralt keeps his back straight, face turned away but granite still. He listens to Jaskier’s steps long after they’re gone and imagines the bard becoming a mere dot in the distance. He stands there for a while, slowing his breath and his heart until he can’t feel their absence, Yennefer and Jaskier. The silence is so loud.

It was tempting to hold onto the rage he let loose, but it has left him too. Geralt tries to ignore what stays, the churning in his gut of shame and self-pity. In his songs, Jaskier has over the years disabused the world of the notion that Witchers do not feel. Would that he were wrong after all, Geralt thinks.

At least he’s still got Roach. Once Geralt has made his way back to her, his girl nickers softly, and he weaves his fingers in her mane. One in a long line, he pushes aside the niggling thought that he’s damned her to a life of toil and strain and an early death too, most like. Instead, he lets her nuzzle her nose into his neck for a while.

She deserves an apple when they get to the next sorry village, he decides. A bag of them, and a tankard of ale for him.

“C’mon, Roach.”

And so, once again, they follow the road.


End file.
